“The Gentleman from ” Kurt , 1922-2007

GREGORY SUMNER

Henry David Thoreau said, “I have traveled extensively in Concord.” . . . . [W]hat he said about Concord is what every child feels, what every child seemingly must feel, about the place where he or she was born. There is surely more than enough to marvel at for a lifetime, no matter where the child is born. Castles? Indianapolis was full of them.

n his 1981 “autobiographical collage,” , Irecounted the frustration he experienced trying to convince the Indianapolis Star to run an obituary for another city-native-made-good, Janet Flanner. For decades, Flanner had been Paris correspondent for The New Yorker, and, like Vonnegut, she was a member of the presti- gious American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. In Vonnegut’s estimation, Flanner was “the most deft and charming literary stylist Indianapolis has so far produced, and the one who came closest

______Gregory Sumner is professor of American history at the University of Detroit Mercy. He is the author of Dwight Macdonald and the Politics Circle: The Challenge of Cosmopolitan Democracy (1996). An Indianapolis native, he is currently writing an intellectual biography of Kurt Vonnegut.

INDIANA MAGAZINE OF HISTORY, 103 (September 2007) 2007, Trustees of University. KURT VONNEGUT 303

Kurt Vonnegut, c. 1984 Courtesy Butler University 304 INDIANA MAGAZINE OF HISTORY

to being a planetary citizen, too.” Despite these achievements, no one he spoke to over the phone at the Star’s city room had ever heard of her. Vonnegut was able at last to overcome their disinterest when he men- tioned that she was related to the family who ran a prominent chain of local funeral homes. From this he concluded that his “legacy,” too, was secure—that, when the time came, he would have no problem getting an appropriate obituary in an Indianapolis paper, “because I am related to people who used to own a chain of hardware stores.”1 The cultural provincialism Kurt Vonnegut decried and often paro- died still exists in Indianapolis, but, judging from how the city respond- ed to his death this past April, he need not have worried that his life and career would be reduced to his connections to the (still fondly remem- bered) Vonnegut Hardware chain. The city had already embarked in 2007 on “The Year of Kurt Vonnegut,” an ambitious program of commu- nity activities and events honoring his “Indianapolis heritage and liter- ary contributions to the world.” Among the highlights were mayoral proclamations, a “one city-one book” library promotion of his 1969 antiwar masterpiece, Slaughterhouse-Five, exhibitions of his silkscreens (a passion in his later years), and a McFadden Lecture at Butler University, which took place, as it turned out, two weeks after his death. delivered his father’s last speech to a packed audience at Clowes Hall on April 27. The next day, fellow Indianapolis literary alum Dan Wakefield, speaking at the Indianapolis Museum of Art, offered an emotional testament to the generosity of his friend and mentor. The memorial lovefest was sincere and widespread, and represented the last phase of a rapprochement of sorts between Kurt Vonnegut and his native city which had been in the works for some time. Vonnegut left Indiana for good more than six decades ago. In 1940, after graduation from Shortridge High School, he embarked on a short career as a chemistry student at Cornell University, then served as a sol- dier in the Second World War. After the war, he studied anthropology at the University of Chicago, then worked in public relations for General Electric in Schenectady, New York. He labored as a writer in the 1950s and 1960s, struggling to support his family on Cape Cod. And, since 1970, he lived as an iconic presence on the East Side of Manhattan, pro- ducing books for a global audience. Through it all, Vonnegut wore his

______1Kurt Vonnegut, Palm Sunday: An Autobiographical Collage (New York, 1981), 53, 60-61. KURT VONNEGUT 305

Hoosier identity on his sleeve. He incorporated it into his work, and often discussed his complex relationship to the land of his formative years. He was perhaps too humble to claim the mantle he admired, once worn by Booth Tarkington—“The Gentleman from Indianapolis.” But it is clear that, for our time, he deserves that encomium.

Indianapolis—“the only human settlement in all of history whose location was determined by a pen and a straightedge,” he once told John Updike— was of course the site of profound pain as well as joy growing up. Kurt Vonnegut Jr. was born into the fourth generation of a spectacu- larly prosperous German American extended family of farmers, mer- chants, and artisans that first arrived in Indianapolis in the years before the Civil War. As his Uncle John Rauch observed in the family history that occupies the first section of Palm Sunday:

The immigrants had been literally starved—materially and socially—in the Nineteenth Century of Western Europe. When they came here and found the rich table of the Midwest, they gorged themselves. And who can blame them? In the process they created an Empire by the hardest work and exercise of their inherent and varied talents.

These “guilt-free” people of the German tide, Vonnegut wrote, had not been involved in “the genocides and ethnic cleansing which had made this for them a virgin continent.” Upon arrival, they built successful net- works of businesses and social clubs throughout the Midwest, notably in cities like Milwaukee, Chicago, Detroit, and Cincinnati. In Indianapolis, on the paternal side of the family, the empire included a burgeoning dry- goods business which later became Vonnegut Hardware. Its success made the Vonneguts aristocratic leaders of their community and allowed the men to pursue professions. Kurt’s grandfather, Bernard, and father, Kurt Sr., were licensed architects, responsible for many of the architec- tural gems of Indianapolis, including Das Deutsche Haus, the L. S. Ayres department store (and its legendary clock), the William H. Block build- ing, the Lyric Theatre, and the Bell Telephone downtown headquarters. Kurt’s mother, Edith, despite a traumatic childhood, was similarly the beneficiary of the Lieber Brewery fortune, which afforded her an elite education, grand tours of European churches, museums, and castles, and high expectations for the future. Kurt and Edith’s wedding party at 306 INDIANA MAGAZINE OF HISTORY

the Claypool Hotel in 1913 was an extravagant celebration, both in cost and scale, an event “long remembered in Indianapolis,” according to Uncle John. “The next year,” however, “came the First World War and then prohibition. The curtain fell on a glorious scene—never to be wit- nessed again.” The xenophobic furies unleashed by the war effectively “lobotomized” the German American community in Indianapolis, in Kurt Vonnegut’s words. Das Deutsche Haus, splashed by vandals with yellow paint, became the Atheneum. Kurt and Edith grew so afflicted with Weltshmerz for their lost prewar world that they were unable or unwilling to pass along much German language, music, or culture to their youngest son, Kurt Jr., who arrived in 1922. “They volunteered to make me ignorant and rootless as proof of their patriotism,” Vonnegut recalled ruefully. His parents separated him so thoroughly from his ancestral past, he wrote, that the German soldiers who captured him at the Battle of the Bulge in 1944, far from being brothers, “might as well have been Bolivians or Tibetans for all they meant to me.”2 By the time of the Great Depression, the Vonneguts’ financial for- tunes also went into steep decline. There were no missed meals at their elegant home on North Illinois Street, but Kurt Sr. could not find a com- mission for a decade and a half after the stock market crash of 1929. The family found itself juggling creditors (enduring a growing, humiliating reputation as “charge-account deadbeats”) and sinking on capital made of quicksand. The stress of these losses no doubt contributed to Edith’s suicide on Mother’s Day weekend 1944, with her youngest son visiting home while training to go overseas at Camp Atterbury. It also “gutted” the spirit of Kurt Sr., who, after the war, became a recluse, eventually living out his life in solitude as a potter in Brown County until his death in 1957.3 As a youngster, Kurt Jr. felt these blows profoundly. He always described himself, first and foremost, as a child of the Great Depression, with all the desperate insecurity and fatalism that the phrase implies. To be sure, his parents, despite their difficulties, did provide a nurturing

______2Vonnegut, Fates Worse Than Death: An Autobiographical Collage (New York 1991), 93; Palm Sunday, 41, 46-48, 20-21, 78-79; (New York, 2005), 52. For a darker view of nineteenth-century “empire-building” in the Midwest, where “a handful of rapacious citizens come to control all that [is] worth controlling” in “Rosewater County, Indiana,” see Vonnegut, God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater (New York, 1965), 8-12. 3Vonnegut, Fates Worse Than Death, 23; Palm Sunday, 143, 48-52. KURT VONNEGUT 307

home in many respects. Even amid the world of “empty graces and aggressively useless possessions” whose passing they mourned, the house was full of books, magazines, and art, and they inoculated their children against what they saw as the twin poisons of organized religion and racism. As to the former, Kurt inherited the ancestral creed of free- thinking skepticism, although he often termed himself a “Christ-wor- shipping agnostic,” referring to the Christ of the Sermon on the Mount. As to the latter, Indianapolis, Vonnegut remembered, was as divided by Jim Crow segregation during his childhood as any southern city. Of his parents, he said, “I’m grateful that I learned from them that organized religion is anti-Christian and that racial prejudices are stupid and cruel.”4 Still, loss is a dominant motif of his youth. Like his elder siblings, Bernard and Edith, he had no reason to return home once he left for the larger world. “The planet (my parents) loved and thought they under- stood was destroyed in the First World War.” The warm “folk society” prepared for the next generation had disintegrated. In future years Vonnegut, like millions of other displaced, “rootless” Americans, would pose this question when visiting his native city: “‘Where is my bed?’” He eventually ended up on the East Coast, convinced that the Midwest was a lonelier, less hospitable place to practice writing or the arts. “No writ- ers live there,” he said in 1969. “[A]s a writer, you don’t feel you’re pulling your weight, doing man’s work.” In a similar vein, he comment- ed on the persistence of the Indianapolis of his grandfather’s generation, where “the practice of the arts was regarded as an evasion of real life by means of parlor tricks.” Over the decades he saw many of the downtown buildings created by his family bulldozed in favor of parking lots. He observed in 1980:

______4Vonnegut, Fates Worse Than Death, 113; Palm Sunday, 54, 89, 298. Another key figure in Vonnegut’s inoculation against race prejudice was Ida Young, the “humane and wise” black woman who worked in the Vonnegut home and “essentially raised” young Kurt, nurturing the “compassionate, forgiving aspects” of his beliefs. Hank Nuwer, “A Skull Session with Kurt Vonnegut,” in Conversations with Kurt Vonnegut, William Rodney Allen, ed. (Jackson, Miss., 1988), 244-45. Another Indianapolis woman who influenced Vonnegut was Phoebe Hurty, to whom he dedicated his novel . Hurty, a widow who wrote an irreverent advice column for the Indianapolis News, spoke “bawdily” to her sons, Kurt, and the other teenagers who spent time at her house in the late 1930s. “She was liberating,” Vonnegut recalled. “She taught us to be impolite in conversation not only about sexual matters, but about American history and famous heroes, about the distribution of wealth, about school, about everything.” Breakfast of Champions (New York, 1973), 1-2. 308 INDIANA MAGAZINE OF HISTORY

Indianapolis has had the misfortune to continually prosper and, when a city enjoys that type of prosperity, it enjoys the ability to continually “renew” itself. “Renew” is the wrong term, of course. What the city does is architecturally destroy itself. It cannibalizes the types of graceful and delicate architecture that made it a thing of beauty. So I guess there was something harrowing for my father: existing in a city, a provincial capital like Indianapolis, witnessing the systematic replacement of works of art, many of which he helped create, with a bunch of amorphous cinder blocks.

In a reference to his wartime experience at Dresden, he concluded that “[t]hey might as well have dropped a bomb on Indianapolis.”5 Vonnegut bemoaned the reactionary, chamber-of-commerce Babbitry of the city’s postwar leadership. By the time I encountered his books, a decade after his discovery by the 1960s counterculture, I recog- nized the “Midland City, Ohio,” of Breakfast of Champions as the arid, lonesome sprawl of 1970s suburban Indianapolis where I grew up, with its interstates and billboards for “Exit 11” car dealerships, its Holiday Inns and Burger Chefs, its culverts filled with toxic water, its ridiculous- ly boosterish “Festivals of the Arts.” In his 1986 McFadden Lecture I heard him challenge his audience about what had happened to the pro- gressive city of the arts that Indianapolis had promised to become. Kurt Vonnegut was hailed as a celebrity by the city—his fame could not be denied. But the style and “vulgar” content of his books scandalized many back home, who either ignored or condemned his writing. He maintained that his use of raw language and imagery, his pessimism, and the “bad manners” exhibited in his later books, were an attempt at last to break through the mendacious middle-class propriety with which he had been raised. “Even when I was in grammar school,” he wrote, “I sus- pected that warnings about words that nice people never used were in fact lessons in how to keep our mouths shut not just about our bodies,

______5David Standish, “Playboy Interview,” in Conversations, 85, 79; Robert Taylor, “Kurt Vonnegut,” in Conversations, 8; Palm Sunday, 39; Charles Reilly, “Two Conversations with Kurt Vonnegut,” in Conversations, 228-29. Vonnegut similarly applied his apocalyptic imagination to the charac- ter , who envisions Indianapolis being consumed by a Dresden-like firestorm. God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, 251-53. KURT VONNEGUT 309

but about many, many things—perhaps too many things.” In any event, Vonnegut’s critiques of his Hoosier roots, sometimes gentle (see Cat’s Cradle and God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater), sometimes scorching (Breakfast of Champions), hurt, and his pacifism, as well as his antipathy to what he saw as the rapacious social Darwinism of the Nixon, Reagan, and Bush years, did not go over well with many in “red state” Indiana. 6 But Vonnegut never abandoned his Hoosier identity. He recalled with lyrical beauty long-ago summers at the family cottage on Lake Maxincuckee, and reiterated his sense of exile in the East. “I am one of America’s Great Lakes people, her freshwater people, not an oceanic but a continental people,” he wrote in his final collection, A Man without a Country (2005). “Whenever I swim in an ocean, I feel as though I am swimming in chicken soup.” He defended his region against those in the smug, bicoastal cognoscenti who dismissed it as “flyover country.” In a letter to me in 1997, Vonnegut commented about the “almost willful ignorance” he observed among many New York City intellectuals about the Middle West. They would be shocked, he wrote, to find “kindred souls” in art and thought living out in the hinterlands.7 In matters of voice and writing style, Vonnegut trusted himself most when he used the language of a person from Indianapolis, “where common speech sounds like a band saw cutting galvanized tin, and employs a vocabulary as unornamental as a monkey wrench.” He chose simplicity, clarity, and economy over baroque virtuosity, despite the fact that “to literary critics and academics in this country . . . clarity looks a lot like laziness and ignorance and childishness and cheapness. . . . Any idea which can be grasped immediately is for them, by definition, some- thing they knew all the time.” Vonnegut admired and emulated Mark Twain, Lincoln, and other writers—“country boys from Middle America,

______6Vonnegut, Palm Sunday, 203. In a review of Dan Wakefield’s Indianapolis coming-of-age novel (New York, 1970), Vonnegut applauded the author for capturing “the nar- rowness and dimness of many lives out that way,” circa the early 1950s. He cautioned that Wakefield, “having written this book, can never go home again. From now on, he will have to watch the 500-Mile Speedway race on television.” Wampeters, Foma & (New York, 1974), 118. Vonnegut poked fun at the idea of “Hoosiers” as a , an absurdly “proud and meaningless association of human beings,” in Cat’s Cradle (New York, 1963), 89-92; Wampeters, xv. 7Vonnegut, Fates Worse Than Death, 49-53; Man Without a Country, 10; Kurt Vonnegut, letter to author, April 5, 1997. 310 INDIANA MAGAZINE OF HISTORY

. . . [who] made the American people laugh at themselves and appreciate really important, really moral jokes.” Like them, he was a man grounded by the values of the heartland, a self-educated, marginalized “rustic” challenging the cultural establishment on his own terms. Aside from his sister Alice, writers in the Mark Twain mold, and the radio comedians he loved during the 1930s, Vonnegut cited Indiana humorist Kin Hubbard (“often as witty as Oscar Wilde”) as a primary influence on his comic sensibility. For decades Hubbard wrote a daily joke for the Indianapolis News, making his points with sly, homespun observations like “Prohibition is better than no liquor at all,” and, “it’s no disgrace to be poor, but it might as well be.”8 Kurt Vonnegut’s politics, likewise, came from a progressive Hoosier tradition, partially imported from European immigrants—notably the socialism of Eugene Debs and Powers Hapgood. (The narra- tor of his 1991 novel has the name “Eugene Debs Hartke,” a peculiar southwestern Indiana amalgam.) Vonnegut, who had to leave private school after the third grade, never missed an opportunity to praise the education he received at Indianapolis P.S. 43 (“James Whitcomb Riley” elementary school). Later at Shortridge, he honed his writing skills as an editor of The Echo, the only high school daily in the country. Here is Vonnegut’s loving description of the Indianapolis of his youth from Fates Worse Than Death (1991):

That city gave me a free primary and secondary education richer and more humane than anything I would get from any of the five universities I attended (Cornell, Butler, Carnegie Tech, Tennessee, and Chicago). It had a widespread system of free libraries whose attendants seemed to my young mind to be angels of fun with information. There were cheap movie houses and jazz joints everywhere. There was a fine symphony orchestra.9

His notions of “radical democracy” came not from the Communist Party of the 1930s but from his Indianapolis public education. He once told Playboy:

______8Vonnegut, Palm Sunday, 70, 291; Man Without A Country, 75; Palm Sunday, 157-58. 9Vonnegut, Man Without a Country, 11-14; Fates Worse Than Death, 97. KURT VONNEGUT 311

[E]verything I believe I was taught in junior civics during the Great Depression—at School 43 in Indianapolis, with full approval of the school board . . . . America was an idealistic, paci- fistic nation at that time. I was taught in the sixth grade to be proud that we had a standing Army of just over a hundred thou- sand men and that the generals had nothing to say about what was done in Washington. I was taught to be proud of that and to pity Europe for having more than a million men and tanks. I sim- ply never unlearned junior civics. I still believe in it. I got a very good grade.

Munitions makers stood condemned as “Merchants of Death” in Vonnegut’s school days. He learned to cherish the First Amendment and the rest of the Bill of Rights, the Gettysburg Address, and similar writ- ings as holy documents in a fragile social experiment, one increasingly, dangerously under siege in the last half-century. “I was raised to be bug- house about the Constitution, and to be very excited about the United States of America as a Utopia,” Vonnegut told another interviewer in 1973, even amid the Watergate trauma. “It still seems utterly workable to me and I keep thinking of ways to fix it, to see what the hell went wrong, to see if we can get the thing to really run right.”10 In his later years Vonnegut’s pessimism about the “workability” of our democratic system deepened, along the trajectory of his hero Mark Twain. In Man Without a Country, he concluded an inventory of the depredations of the Bush-Cheney years with the warning “there is not a chance in hell of America becoming humane and reasonable. Because power corrupts us, and absolute power corrupts us absolutely. Human beings are chimpanzees who get crazy drunk on power.” Beyond that, he lamented that a century of “transportation whoopee,” fossil-fuel addiction, and apathy had doomed the planet to uninhabitability in the not-distant future. But Vonnegut’s appreciation for his roots also grew in his last years, as evidenced by his enthusiastic participation in his home city’s “Year of Vonnegut” celebration. He sometimes spoke, wist- fully, of an alternative past, where he did not have to join the Hoosier diaspora in the boom-and-bust, war-torn dislocations of mid-century.

______10Standish, “Playboy Interview,” in Conversations, 103; Frank McLaughlin, “An Interview with Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.,’” in Conversations, 72. 312 INDIANA MAGAZINE OF HISTORY

Instead, he might have happily lived out his life in the dense, rich, nur- turing folk society of the extended family of his birth, contributing to the cultural fulfillment of Indianapolis as a third-generation architect, or perhaps, as he once quipped to Joseph Heller, as garden editor for the Indianapolis Star. And in a speech at the Atheneum in the fall of 1996 he updated his assessment of the cultural life of his hometown, once so seemingly barren:

In those days, and I contrast them very pointedly with these days, an artist of either sex had nothing to do and no place to go in Indianapolis. It was truly Indian-no-place or Nap Town . . . . (Today) any boy or girl as artistically talented as was my grandfa- ther Bernard, or as scientifically gifted as my brother Bernard, need not leave town to find training, encouragement, and inspi- ration. It was all here for me 73 years ago, and I have come home specifically to express my gratitude.11

With his passing this spring, Indiana has lost its most important ambassador, a homegrown original who showed its most civilized and humane face to the nation and, indeed, to the world. As we reflect upon and celebrate his life, creative and concerned people of all generations should say Hooray for Kurt Vonnegut—Hoosier, planetary citizen, and latter-day “Gentleman from Indianapolis.”

______11Vonnegut, Man Without a Country, 71, 9, 42; Atheneum address, October 10, 1996, reprinted in NUVO, July 3-10, 1997.